Lester's Legacy
by AutumnDreaming
Summary: Reader Zinal's concept. Lester HEA with a mysterious woman. If Ranger is Rambo, Lester is James Bond - a natural chameleon and clever con-man, but just as lethal as any 007 out there. The story picks up in Hard Eight, and then focuses on Lester's story. Ever wonder exactly how Eddie Abruzzi met his maker? You'll find out in Chp 2. Some Ranger & Steph action. Lots of laughs.
1. Enter Lester

I had been dragged out of bed in the middle of the night by my cousin, because he needed to talk. There are few people in this world who could even find me in the middle of the night, let alone drag me out of bed. Carlos could, but never did, unless it was for a very good reason. Now, here I was, sprawled on a leather sofa in the dark with a steaming cup of coffee in my hand. I watched as Carlos lit a blazing fire in the round hearth in the middle of the sitting room, as if he were my host rather than an intruder breaking and entering.

"Nice work, Ranger," I said, emphasizing Carlos' moniker for effect. Ranger is one of the best covert operatives around if you want someone dead. I'm best at rubbing elbows with the living, which is why I prefer using a name rather than a marketing label on my calling cards. That's not to say that I'm less than lethal. But I have to admit, it gives me a dark, creeping chill when Ranger sneaks up on me mid-mission when I should be alone and off the grid. If Ranger can find me, I have to face the fact that there are others like him, possibly many others, who can end me in an instant. There is no safe place to run and hide. That's an unsettling and unpleasant thought. So, I reason, why not hide in the open and enjoy all life has to offer? That's the thought that sustains me.

"Not even going to ask?" I mumbled.

"I don't care what you're doing here," he said dismissively. "We need to talk."

His attitude was casual, as if letting himself into a fifty-third floor luxury suite inside a Defense Department contractor's covert high-rise was as easy as ringing the doorbell. I didn't live there. I was just visiting. In fact, if the company were to become aware of our presence in the building, we'd both be dead.

"Just keeping my skills sharp," I explained. "And the accommodations are top notch," I said.

Leaning back, I stared up at the few stars visible through the soaring glass ceiling of this three-story penthouse, and then turned my head to gaze out across the brightly lit New York skyline. We were on top of the world.

"Good," he answered without enthusiasm.

I took a sip of the coffee. It was gourmet and expensive, and I assumed it had been brewed in the kitchen, which was even more unsettling. Ranger had been here long enough to make coffee. Great.

"What kind of coffee is this?" I asked, taking another sip.

"Kopi Luwak."

I spit the coffee back into the cup and sat bolt upright. I'm not drinking anything that has passed through the digestive system of a caged civet. I don't care how rare and expensive it is.

Ranger almost smiled. "St. Helena," he said, taking a sip.

"Bastard," I growled. I should have known.

He took the seat opposite me. Something was preying on his mind. Ranger was good at compartmentalizing and could usually sort out his own mental issues. True to form, he sat silently sipping coffee without speaking while my mind wandered.

I had no idea what Ranger was about to confess, but I suspected he was unable to get someone to do something he wanted using coercion. Or else, he'd done something awful and was coming to me for absolution or advice.

To pass the time, I reflected on the words of Marcus Aurelius in his famous Meditations. As a veteran warrior and ruler, he seemed well qualified as a source of wisdom. He listed nine rules. One, alpha dogs rule. Of course, I'm paraphrasing. Marcus Aurelius said it better, but I find it's best not to wax poetic in the company of soldiers and ex-cons. Two, know your enemy. Three, pity the evil-doer, because he is ignorant. Not sure this rule always applies. Sometimes the enemy is decidedly evil. But it's something to consider. Four, there but by the grace of God go I. Five, be careful how you judge. Things are not always as they seem. Six, life is short, and death is sure. Consider your legacy carefully. Seven, it is not the acts of others that disturb us as much as our own feelings about those actions, and it is necessary to divorce the two when meting out justice. Eight, consider how much more pain, anger, and violence may result from a poor reaction to an evil deed. In other words, keep a cool head and think dispassionately before acting. Much easier said than done. Yet, much easier than cleaning up the mess if you don't. And, to sum it all up, number nine, "a good disposition is invincible, if it be genuine."

Laugh if you will. I always enjoy a good laugh. My quick wit and reassuring smile have won the confidence of the hardest of business men, not to mention their ladies. Fortunately for me, very few of those dark souls have caused me personal injury as a result. In fact, it's unusual for my mark to put two and two together. People like me, and they don't want to admit to themselves they were being manipulated. They don't want to believe it, so they find reasons not to see the truth. And it's easy for them to believe I was genuine, because I genuinely enjoy people. The time I spend with my marks is never wasted time. I like to think we both get something we want.

My name is Lester Santos. I'm one-fourth black, a fourth Irish, and half Cuban. I may be a mixed breed mutt, but I got the best features of each of my parents. At six-foot-two, I'm quick on my feet and gifted with muscular perfection. I have Caucasian features, full lips, permanently tanned skin, sultry green eyes lined with thick dark lashes, and silky dark-brown hair. With practice in front of a mirror, I taught myself how to express emotion in many different languages. I can become the embodiment of Latin heat, fiery Irish insolence, or menacing street thug. I can almost pull off being black if I spend a week in a tanning bed and wear colored contacts, but I can pull off "not-white" anytime. For me to pass as Caucasian away from the beach is usually more trouble than I'm willing to commit to, but it can be done. I did some of my best work in Quebec. I can control my accent in English, Spanish, French, and Portuguese to indicate my origin is anywhere from the tip of South America to Canada to Spain. But it's my smile that really wows the ladies. I've been many things. Football player. Homecoming King. Cabana boy. College Student. Bartender. Grunt. Special Forces Intelligence Sergeant. Bounty hunter. Lazy slacker. Womanizer. As a natural born con-man, I've pretended to be everything from doctor to lawyer to Indian Chief. There are many in the intelligence community who argue that F3EAD is an obsolete concept. I have always seen "Find, Fix, Finish, Exploit, Analyze, and Disseminate" to be nothing more than a re-enactment of the age-old art of grifting. And there's nothing more satisfying that grifting the grifter, conning the con, and spying on other spies. Shakespeare himself would have been proud to record some of my finer exploits. But alas, the world will never know, because I like my skin in the shape it's in.

My cousin, Ranger, as in once-was-an-Army-Ranger, is more than capable of looking after himself. Being a couple years older, he has always considered himself the Alpha-alpha male between the two of us. In deference to the Marcus Aurelius' rules above, I find it wise to let him continue in that role. It means he takes responsibility off my shoulders in many situations, expects less of me than of himself, and that he cuts me more slack than he probably should. This works to my benefit, so why should I insult his pride?

For example, to the unwitting eye, I work for my cousin at his private security company, Rangeman, due to Ranger's generous act of nepotism towards a wayward slacker. Do I actually work for Ranger? No. I'm a partner. Ranger, Tank, Bobby and I each own a quarter share. We have a business manager, an accountant, an insurance man, and an attorney to take care of the most difficult and tiresome paperwork. Ranger takes a personal interest in discipline, scheduling, and payroll. Tank is his second in command, then Bobby, and lastly, me. Which leaves me in a superior position. After all, isn't it the company president who puts in the most time on the golf course, not the CEO?

I'm too content with my lot to argue over semantics. I've earned a satisfactory amount of respect from my peers over the years. No one messes with me. And I'm free as a bird to follow more enjoyable pursuits in my down-time. Relaxed and laid back. That's me.

Ranger, on the other hand, is over-worked by choice. And since Stephanie Plum landed on the scene, over-stimulated as well. That girl's trouble with a capital T, and everyone knows it, including the Trenton Times. It's literally front page news. So, it's no surprise to me that Ranger's lying on my couch asking for advice right now.

"Abruzzi?" I asked, voicing my best guess.

"Yeah," he groaned. "He's threatened to rip her heart out. Twice."

"And not metaphorically, I suppose."

"No. And now he's acting on the threat. He kidnapped Stephanie and her sister earlier today. He intended to torture her for information first. He burned her arm before they escaped. He'll kill her if he catches her again."

"I'm surprised it's taken a man like Abruzzi this long. What's it been? A week?"

"He's been distracted."

I knew this because I was the one who informed Ranger that Abruzzi, a local loan shark and general nut job, had lost one of his prized military medals, the one that used to belong to Napoleon.

"Fill me in on the rest."

Ranger ran it down. Stephanie found Abruzzi's minion, Steven Soder, cut in half, sitting on her living room sofa. Abruzzi probably suspected Soder of taking the medal, but got nothing out of him. Now, Soder's little girl, Annie, was Abruzzi's prime suspect. Ranger and Stephanie found drawings the girl left behind at the apartment depicting a grisly shooting. Ranger thought Annie witnessed Soder's murder, and her mom took off with her. They were moving around, hiding. Abruzzi knew Stephanie was trying to locate them, and since she'd returned to Trenton and appeared to have stopped searching, he assumed Stephanie knew where they were. And to top it off, Stephanie's mother actually committed vehicular homicide rescuing Stephanie from an earlier kidnapping attempt. Leo Klug, Abruzzi's main enforcer, was on ice with the ME.

Ranger was afraid of losing Stephanie, and he was letting it show. This was something I treasured. Not his fear. His trust. It was nearly impossible to earn Ranger's confidence. But I'd always had it. We were family. Blood. Anything that scared Ranger scared me. Anything that hurt Ranger hurt me. I wasn't in love with Stephanie, and the thought of her demise didn't exactly gnaw at my insides, but the thought of what it would do to Ranger did. If I didn't give my best effort to help him now, he'd never forget it.

I took a deep breath, and Ranger did the same. We were quiet for a few minutes, the familiar calm of planning a mission washing over us.

"Abruzzi's got to go," I said, simply.

Ranger nodded, without emotion.

"And you can't be the one to do it," I told him.

"Morelli will assume."

"Morelli will be wrong."

"I _should_ do it," he said, as if we were batting a tennis ball back and forth between us.

"You can't. You have motive and opportunity."

"You can't leave any trace," he reminded me.

"I won't need to," I assured him.

"You just going to talk him into it?" he asked, not surprised.

"Why not? What's he got to live for?"

"Nothing. Not anymore." Ranger sat up slowly.

I stood, offering him my hand. Our fists hooked by the thumbs as I hauled him up in a very manly gesture. His tight squeeze was conveying emotion, and we held there for a long moment. Then, before it became embarrassing, we bumped fists a few times like best friends and Ranger left without another word.

So, once again, I was the one Ranger counted on when the chips were down. Didn't this make me the Alpha-alpha in this instance? I certainly thought so. I was the one who for years had whispered into Ranger's ear, gave unconscious direction to both the man and the monster, and was wise enough not to point it out, no matter how heated the exchange. That took cool, calm, and restraint. Even more restraint than Ranger could muster.

In this area, I ruled.


	2. Ending Abruzzi

Abruzzi was a textbook psychopath, so it would be very difficult, if not impossible, to find anyone or anything he cared about more than himself. Luckily, because he was textbook, I didn't need to. I could just paint him into a corner. All it would take was a few phone calls.

Abruzzi prided himself on being a military tactician, on the game board and in real life. Unfortunately for Abruzzi, he was a master at a children's game. Computer generated soldiers always do what you tell them, without needing to be motivated. But if Abruzzi thought he had total control over the men on his payroll, he was sorely mistaken. He wasn't even playing with a full deck, pardon the mixed metaphors. This particular scenario, pitting me against Abruzzi, was like sending in chess grandmaster Bobby Fischer to take down the Candy Land World Champion. It's a piece of cake, once I make it past the Gingerbread Stephanie Plum Trees. It's a mathematical certainty. A computer programmer once analyzed the probability percentages in order to create an electronic version of Candy Land for his kids. Turns out, you can win in just 4 turns - Queen Frostine, double purple, double purple, purple, for example. And there are other combinations. Sounds exciting, except this lucky combination only happens about once in 25,000 games. The longest game can take 204 turns with only 2 people. The average is 60 cards in 16 turns. The point being, a single alteration to the rules of the game can have a profound effect on the outcome and the odds.

Now, I set my mind to considering the game Abruzzi was playing, to see how I could significantly reduce his chances of winning.

Eddie Abruzzi was a local loan-shark-slash-slum-lord. Since he didn't work a 9 to 5, he could organize his virtual war-games to last days if not weeks at a time. These were high-stakes games, and the losers were treated to mob tactics such as shortened digits, busted kneecaps, and finally missing body parts, if they didn't pay up.

Abruzzi was already off his game. His enforcer, Leo Klug, was dead, and it's hard to replace a key player overnight. From what Ranger told me, and from what I was reading in the paper, I pieced together that Trenton Police Detective Joe Morelli, aka Stephanie Plum's other lover, suspected a drunk driver had run over Klug and fled the scene. At least, he had proceeded with his investigation based on that assumption. From what I knew about Helen Plum, Morelli wasn't wrong. I'd read the Rangeman garbage-bag recon reports. Some weeks were better than others, but on average, Helen went through three bottles a week. And I had seen for myself the half-full bottles of hooch hidden in Helen Plum's kitchen cupboards. I tagged along when Ranger set up surveillance on Stephanie's childhood home "for her own protection". Frank Plum may have had a few beers, but I suspected he only tossed back hard liquor at the lodge. I couldn't see him hiding the bottle behind the iron and spray starch. Morelli may have suspected the truth, but he was usually a stand-up guy. No one should do time for ending a slime-bag like Leo Klug. He'd been known as Klug the Slug after being sent to Juvie for exposing himself to ladies in public restrooms all over town. His reputation had not improved over time.

OK. Back to Abruzzi. This guy was not only crazy, he was superstitious. Some time ago, his eye fell on a military medal rumored to have belonged to Napoleon Bonaparte himself. No telling if the story was true or not. That doesn't really matter. What matters is that Abruzzi believed it. The guy that owned the medal refused to sell, so Abruzzi had him eliminated from competition, permanently, and awarded himself the medal. I'm not sure if it was before or after making this acquisition that Abruzzi began dressing as Napoleon while gaming and with women. Again, that detail doesn't matter. What matters is that Abruzzi engaged in such wildly insane behavior without shame or regret. There's your first clue the guy's a nut job. The second clue is that he actually believed the medal made him invincible while he was wearing it. No kidding. I'd have loved to sell this guy some diamond dust that would turn him invisible. It would have been the Emperor's Clothing all over again. But I didn't have time to indulge in my usual antics because Stephanie Plum was involved.

As I've said before, Abruzzi prided himself on being a military tactician, in the game and in real life. In truth, he was an idiot. And a proud idiot, convinced people feared and respected him. He didn't realize he had surrounded himself with morons and imbeciles. He thought he was king of the world, rather than king of his own warped little kingdom. In reality, he'd placed himself in an impossible situation.

First, he believed his power had been stolen, and by a little girl no less. In his mind, he could not possibly afford to fail in recovering the medal. It was his by right and destiny. It was his connection to greatness. He was incapable of letting it go. And why should he? In his mind, this little girl and her mother were no match for him. He'd already killed her father. He wouldn't be happy until the entire family was dead. Only that would satisfy his ego and bolster his reputation. After all, that's what Napoleon would do.

His second problem was that the little girl in question happened to be the granddaughter of Stephanie Plum's parent's next door neighbor. Yeah. Of course she was. Everyone in the Burg is connected somehow, by birth, marriage, or proximity. So, Stephanie got involved, and then Ranger got involved, and now I'm involved. We were not subjects of Abruzzi's dim-witted little kingdom, but Abruzzi didn't seem to understand that. If he did, he would not have made mistake number three.

Abruzzi's third problem was that he'd had one of his men toss a Molotov cocktail into the bed of Ranger's truck. What an idiot. Ranger is known for his top-of-the-line, fully-loaded vehicles, so an assault to Ranger's personal transportation is the same as slapping his cheek with a glove and challenging him to a duel, and everyone knows it, including Abruzzi's men. The aforementioned morons and imbeciles would need to choose sides. Ranger would answer the insult. Everyone knew it. And few of Abruzzi's men would relish the thought of getting caught in the crossfire. Death was one thing, but if they were injured, they would no longer be useful. They should have learned a lesson from Leo Krug. Any man down would be discarded, probably without pay. This practice of reserving resources may work on the computer gaming model, but on the streets, that's no way to build allegiance. Abruzzi didn't know it yet, but he was on his own.

Having studied the set-up and speculated on the percentages, I determined that Abruzzi could only continue playing this game for two more weeks, if Ranger and I let him. Even without our interference, Abruzzi was a dead man. He could die at the hands of his own men. He could be eliminated by his enemies. He could meet an untimely end due to his involvement in Stephanie Plum's bizarre sphere of influence. Or, he could die by Ranger's hand. The only way to guarantee a quick and painless death would be to take his own life, which is what any sane man would do. Of course, we were not dealing with a sane man. In this case, the obvious needed to be pointed out to Abruzzi, clearly and concisely. That's where I come in.

I made my first move. I have been around the block a few times, and I've amassed a rather impressive little black book. Encrypted, of course. Ranger already knew the back rooms where Abruzzi had been conducting business the past few years. I happen to know the bar maids. One call lead to another, and another. "Abruzzi is vulnerable. He lost his medal to a little girl. Someone with a grudge is sure to take him out now. How can he save face? By killing a little girl?" Translation: "Don't let Abruzzi in the club, it might get shot up, pass it on." Within an hour, Abruzzi was persona-non-grata from Jersey to Atlantic City.

If you make a street thug a laughing stock, it's a sure thing his life-long enemies will come knocking at his door. Being bested by a little girl. Yeah, that'll do it. Rangeman had eyes on Abruzzi's building, from a roof-top cam a half mile away. It only took an hour before Abruzzi was rousted from his nest by Jimmie Smalls, a local bookie that had lost business to Abruzzi. I'd heard a rumor that Abruzzi had also evicted Jimmie's mother after unsuccessfully attempting to extort protection money from her. That story rang true from what I was seeing. Jimmie brought some hired muscle with him. I watched the brief exchange of gunfire followed by Abruzzi's hairsbreadth escape on a secure monitor in Ranger's office. I didn't have an office. Ranger wasn't there. He left when we saw Jimmie's men pull up across the street. Ranger was making a timely appearance at Trenton PD with a skip we'd been keeping on ice in the holding cells for the express purpose. Keeping an FTA prisoner overnight, $50. Capturing Abruzzi's shocked expression, including electronics and labor for monitors on five of his buildings, $1,550. Eliminating Ranger from the list of possible suspects, priceless.

Abruzzi was taken by surprise. He didn't have time to gather his cash. Minutes after Abruzzi escaped, Jimmie Smalls proudly marched back to his vehicle with a large duffel bag filled with the spoils of war. Smalls and his crew were long gone by the time the cops showed up. I played the tape back. Abruzzi was armed. A Glock was clearly visible in his right hand. Good. Abruzzi was on the run now, alone, with very few places to hide. He would have to lay low in one of his own buildings. Which was right where I wanted him.

I signed on to the Rangeman Network using Ranger's computer and pulled up the "activate camera" application. This baby is one of my favorites. Ranger left me the cell phone number Abruzzi had given Stephanie earlier, when he was pressuring her to give up Annie's whereabouts. I punched in the number, but saw only blackness. The inside of his pocket, no doubt, but there was audio. I heard the sound of a car engine. And swearing. Abruzzi was upset, and he still seemed to be alone. Good. I waited patiently. The car stopped. He got out. He talked to a door man, giving instructions that no one was to know he was in the building. He told someone to put the car in the garage. He took an elevator to what I guessed was the third floor, judging by the time it took. He entered a room, slammed and locked the door.

Finally, a glaring light appeared on the screen. Abruzzi's face swam into view for a second, reflected in the glass overlooking downtown Trenton as he searched for a number on the phone. He muttered "Emilio's" as he dialed. Emilio's was one of the bars with a back-room establishment I'd called earlier. They would probably recognize the number. It was going on six in the evening. They were open for sure. No answer. He tried again. Straight to voice mail.

While Abruzzi was standing in the window, I searched the other dedicated camera feeds until I found him on the fourth floor of an apartment building. The camera was labeled "Building Two". This made me smile. Ranger had good instincts. Abruzzi's next stop would probably be "Building Three".

He dialed a couple social clubs. When he finally succeeded in reaching a live person, he got an ear-full from an elderly man who misunderstood the gossip about the girl. He was going to town, cussing Abruzzi for being a sex offender.

"What the _hell_ is going on around here?" Abruzzi bellowed to no one in particular as he disconnected the call.

While he cursed and complained, he searched for another number, this time pointing the camera down as he dialed. He had his wallet laid out on the counter next to a jigger of Scotch. I took a screen shot and zoomed in. A couple gold card numbers were visible, his driver's license, and I recognized the scarlet border on the edge of a local Madam's calling card. I took the opportunity to make my second move. Rangeman already had Abruzzi's Social Security number and other pertinents on file. A little over a year ago, a bench warrant had been issued on an unpaid parking ticket. It only took a few minutes for me to report the credit cards stolen. New cards would be issued, but he wouldn't receive them until next week. I informed the madam of Abruzzi's situation via one of her girls, thinking it a more natural method of dispensing reliable information, as well as relieving my own tension. The price for a verbal _rapport sexuel_, $150. Money well spent, let me tell you. Especially since I put it on Abruzzi's cancelled gold card. The Madam would pay close attention to what the girl had to say when the charges were reversed. No more nookie from this cookie.

Abruzzi had calmed down. I needed to stir him up again, keep him anxious, unable to rest. I quickly memorized the credit card numbers, permanently cleared the data from Ranger's computer, and borrowed the green Explorer from the Rangeman garage.

I made my third move. I called Abruzzi on a burner phone while circling Trenton on the highway, so the signal was bouncing off several signal towers. I didn't bother trying to bounce the signal around the globe. No one would be tracing the call anyway.

"Yeah?" Abruzzi growled when he finally picked up.

"Game on," I cooed into the phone.

"Jimmie, you sick little bastard. I'm gonna kill you," Abruzzi hissed, drawing out each syllable with menace.

"You and what army? Seems like you're running low on protection. You alone?" I asked, letting my Cuban accent slip out on purpose.

"Manoso," he croaked, assuming I was Ranger.

"You wish," I said with a purely Jersey accent, taunting him, my wicked smile being conveyed by my voice.

That caught him off guard. He was silent, calculating his response.

"You're in a tight spot," I suggested, my voice forceful, planting the thought deep in his mind. "Trying to kill an innocent child. Pre-meditated. After forcing her to watch her father murdered. And what about her mother? What will you do to her mother before you decide the girl's telling the truth? Oh, my," I said, suggestively. "Most of your employees are ex-cons. Won't take kindly to that. And all to recover a worthless piece of tin. _You're_ the sick little bastard. You'll be lucky if your men don't kill you themselves."

Silence.

"You're dead. Think anyone will miss you?" I asked, letting that idea creep into his mind. "Nah."

More silence. He was thinking hard now.

"I've got a lot of powerful friends in this town," he spat back.

"Name them."

"Who the hell are you? You know who you're dealing with, pal?," he asked, trying to sound menacing, but falling short.

"Oh, _I_ know who _I_ am. And I know exactly who I'm dealing with. The question is, do _you_ know who _you_ are?"

"Say what?"

"You think no one's noticed you're crazy? Dressing up like a historical figure? That's something you see in the loony bin. Don't you ever stop and think about what that looks like?"

I count to three, and hit him again.

"Superstitious, crazy…they call that eccentric. Those things are easy to overlook for money. But murder, that takes more money. And you have enough money even for that. Enough money to pay a bear and a rabbit to do your dirty work. But, they can't spend the money, cause they're dead. Wasn't Leo Klug your right hand man, your trusted confidant? You were so close. But the moment he failed you, you left his body to rot unclaimed at the morgue. And he's not the only one. So much for loyalty. Your men know what to expect from you now. I'll bet they're open to new opportunities, if you know what I mean. _Bountiful_ new opportunities."

"Are you saying there's a price on my head?" he choked.

"You know, it's bad enough that you went after the girl. But then, you threatened a bounty hunter with an impressive record for tripping over dead bodies. This girl is intimate with a Trenton police detective, and on friendly terms with a dozen or so other cops, not to mention she's related to Mayor Joe Juniak. Did you know that when you kidnapped and tortured her? I'm gonna bet you didn't do your homework. And you took her sister, too. That upped the ante. But you lost them, didn't you? Bested by a couple of Bettys. And to top it off, you spit in Manoso's face. There's a target painted on your back so big that you couldn't possibly pay any of your associates to remove it."

"You wish," Abruzzi growled.

"3555-2626-7425-1255. Cancelled. 4555-2377-1495-6384. Cancelled. NJ 45235174. Revoked. 800-555-1969. Good luck with that. And I'll just bet your having a hard time reaching your business associates this afternoon."

Rapid breathing on the other end. He recognized those numbers. OK, I was bluffing about the revoked driver's license, but the other three were easier to confirm, and he'd believe it. Now he couldn't call the cops. He would assume he would be arrested for an outstanding warrant thanks to Stephanie's cop connection.

"Shall I go on? You're a dead man, Eddie." I said slowly, conveying the message that his death would be even slower.

I could hear the mental toilet flush as so much that Abruzzi had built was whisked away, leaving him exposed with his pants down.

"What do you want?" he asked, suddenly the sweet soul of cooperation, as if I were offering him an alternative. He was ready to listen now.

"Me?" I smiled so wide he could hear it. "I want to watch."

Abruzzi threw his phone against the wall, smashing it and effectively disconnecting the call.

Check. But not quite checkmate.

His mind was surely racing now. Whether or not he recovered the medal was irrelevant. Either way, he had already lost face. He would never recover his "empire". At least, not in Jersey. Whether he believed I was Ranger or not didn't matter. Right now, Abruzzi would assume Rangeman knew where he was holed up, and he was considering all the ways we could make his death look like an accident. Gas explosion, electrocution, fire. But more likely, as local lore would lead one to believe, Abruzzi would be abducted and shipped to a third-world country, where, if he survived the trip, he would be tortured to death, never to be seen or heard from again.

At this point, Abruzzi could come to only one conclusion. He was about to fight his own Waterloo. Who would be loyal to him? Who could he trust? Who could be controlled? Paranoia should be gripping him now. His most capable henchmen would be able to overtake him. His hired muscle could be compromised. That only left him with a few crack heads and degenerates. He'd have to make due. He needed to keep moving. But first, he needed money.

I was back in Ranger's office, watching the cameras on building two with Ranger beside me. I was sure Abruzzi had items of value in his penthouse that he could quickly turn to cash. I dialed up the three most likely local fences and caught one on his way up to see Abruzzi. After being brought up to speed on Abruzzi's unfortunate position, with particular emphasis on the part about a pissed-off Morelli being involved, the fence cancelled the meeting and a notice was posted on an exclusive internet bulletin board. Now, Abruzzi couldn't even afford to show his face at a pawn shop. A good fence would know the value of goods is directly proportional to the need. If Abruzzi went himself, he was in danger of losing his life. If he sent a loser, he was in danger of getting shafted by the fence. He was going to get very little on the dollar either way. And on top of all that, he'd have to trust the crack head or degenerate to bring the money back to him. Not likely. Still, he had to try.

Within an hour, we counted three couriers, each taking a different route. None returned. By midnight, the stark reality of the situation had dawned on Abruzzi. We could see him through the lobby doors on the camera. He'd decided not to stay the night in the building. He had his car brought around, then thought better of driving it. He paid the attendant to circle the block ten times, just to be sure it was safe to drive.

While Abruzzi's car was still circling, I got back in the Explorer and made for his building. I was tailing Abruzzi as he got behind the wheel and tore away. I had a scanner running that could intercept his calls and give me his new cell number while he was on it. Took a few minutes to isolate his signal, but I got it. We drove around aimlessly while Abruzzi dialed one building manager after another. I got Abruzzi's new number. Abruzzi's calls almost always went to voice mail. When they didn't, the person on the other end pretended they couldn't hear due to bad reception and hung up. Finally, Abruzzi started looking for a place off the grid to spend the night, someplace he considered safe. Each time he circled a hotel or motel, I called it in. Within minutes, a shiny black Rangeman SUV would pull up curbside. Abruzzi spooked every time and drove on. Finally, he started calling old girlfriends. No takers. These gals were only interested in what they could get, and the stress in Abruzzi's voice promised nothing but trouble. The crying and begging was a good sign. Almost there.

Soon we were back on the highway. I guessed he was headed for the airport and called it in. By the time we arrived, there was a Rangeman vehicle parked by each loading area, and Tank and Ranger stood impressively silhouetted against the runway lights nearby. I could practically hear him screaming as he pounded the roof with his fist once we were back on the highway.

It was going on 3am, and I was tired of playing games. Besides, we were both low on gas. If he were smart, he'd use the cash in his wallet to fill his gas tank and drive as far as it would take him. Then, in the morning, he would access his bank accounts, and start shopping for new toy soldiers that had never heard of Ranger Manoso. I couldn't let that happen.

Time for checkmate. I dialed the burner phone I'd left with Ranger. It rang three times before I hung up.

Then I dialed Abruzzi.

"It's me again," I cooed into the phone. "All this running around for nothing. You must be completely exhausted. Just like your options."

"How'd you get this number?" he rasped into the phone. "Who are you?"

"When you went after Annie, you gave me your number," I said, thick Cuban accent, leaving no question as to my intention. I was the grim reaper. "And when you call the bank to wire your money, I'll have that number too," I promised. "And when you can't pay your newly hired help, they'll kill you. And I'll watch."

"No," he said. "You have no reason to do this. I haven't hurt the girl. She's in no danger from me. I swear. She can keep the damn medal. And I'll buy Manoso a new truck. I'll do anything, anything you say. Please." He was breaking, pleading for his life.

"You've already hurt the girl, and first chance you get, you'll go after that medal." I wasn't offering him a deal. My mind was made up. The world was better off without Abruzzi.

"What do you want?" he gasped, at the end of his rope. Maybe he'd finally recognized that he was a pathetic little man living a delusion of grandeur, in New Jersey of all places. He wasn't a military leader of legendary proportions, and he never would be. He was a joke. And not even a good one. "Just tell me what you want."

"To watch you die, tonight," I reminded him, the tone of my voice truthful and genuine. I wasn't playing anymore.

"No!" he yelled, clinging to the last shred of pride he possessed.

"Then be the master of your own destiny," I challenged. "You have five minutes."

Best not to let him think about it too long.

His Lincoln tore off the road and across the Farmer's Market parking lot.

"No, no, no," he muttered under his breath, the line still open. "You won't take me alive."

"Good decision," I encouraged.

I disconnected and set my stopwatch for five minutes. I carefully circled the block, looking for a good parking place on a side street. Sitting in front of a line of row houses, I attracted no attention. I pulled a pair of binoculars from the glove compartment and watched. Abruzzi was parked under a lamppost. It looked like he was writing something. Even if he pointed the finger to Ranger, it wouldn't stick. At that very moment, Tank and Ranger were escorting escaped felon number two from an apartment we'd had under surveillance all day. This apartment building had security monitors, and there were two businesses across the street with active street cams that would provide confirmation. On their way to the cop shop, Tank and Ranger would pass no less than a dozen traffic cams. Bobby was on deck in the control room, and I was the last person Morelli would think of checking into. I wasn't sure he even knew my name.

Five minutes were up. I dialed Abruzzi's number, my eyes still glued to his silhouette as the phone rang. The muzzle flash and splatter of blood was unmistakable. The deed was done.

Personally, I was feeling a little disappointed as I drove away. After all, he'd made me call him back, so it took me five moves rather than four, by my count. If you want to get technical and count all the phone calls I made, it's even less impressive. But, it was still a pretty good job for such short notice.

I followed a red glow that had crept in along the skyline and was rewarded for my efforts. I tossed the burner phone into a car that was engulfed in flames down on lower Stark. Then, I called Ranger on my work phone.

"Yo," he answered.

"You owe me breakfast," I told him. "Meet me at Denny's off Route 1."

"Fine." And he disconnected, sounding relieved.

Denny's. Not Ranger's favorite place. Too pedestrian. But, it's got cameras and witnesses that would testify to our state of mind. Tired from a long night's work. Satisfied to have brought in the bad guy. Three men packing heat, bonding over egg whites and bran flakes. Healthy and wholesome. Nothing out of the ordinary for Rangeman.

**_**Please Review**_**


	3. Meeting Alex

Nothing in life is ever simple. I didn't care about the whereabouts of Napoleon's medal. But Stephanie did. She was convinced that Annie and her mother didn't have it. Stephanie was ragging on Ranger to find out who really took it and get the word out to prevent Abruzzi's remaining henchmen from going after Annie. Of course, we had no information at all, no leads, nada. So, Ranger was looking to me to figure it out.

Okay. Deep calming breath.

If I were a moronic imbecile with access to Abruzzi's medal, and I took it, what would I do with it? Is my motivation to become magically invincible? Or, do I think it's worth a couple bucks to get my bookie off my back? Or, am I desperate to satisfy my drug habit? Or, was I paid by someone else to grab it? And if so, did that person kill me when the job was done? Most likely.

I put out some feelers. None of Abruzzi's remaining inside guys were missing. None were suddenly rich. And none of the local fences had moved the medal.

Moving on to the next logical scenario, I figured someone who was black market savvy had determined the net realizable value of this piece, broke in, and stole the medal. This person was not going to fence it local. This was the work of a professional. And a professional would know the best way to get top dollar on an undocumented bauble like this. I was thinking private auction. One must be invited to the underground bulletin boards. Lucky for me, I could manage an invitation to just about anything.

A couple days later, I found myself on a plane headed for Vegas. Okay, I know. Your eyes are still dry. No one's crying for poor Lester. If you think I wasn't planning a quick trip to the blackjack tables while I was in town, you'd be wrong. But, business first.

I was leaning on the glass cabinet of a large pawn shop just off the strip. This was the place to go for all kinds of information, or in this case, another invitation.

"What do you think?," the salesman asked, approaching warily. I think I didn't look too happy.

This guy was more like a professor than a pirate. Clean shaven, tan corduroy jacket with actual leather patches on the sleeves, silver rimmed glasses, jeans with loafers, and an Indiana Jones haircut. He didn't need to be tough. He had more than enough muscle standing around in the corners. This was my way in.

I was looking down into a case filled with military medals, ribbons, pins, and insignia. The green, yellow, and red stripes signifying Vietnam caught my eye right away. The grinning skulls of the Recon units next. Most of the men from my unit had more ribbons, medals, and pins than could reasonably be worn on our dress uniforms. To some of us, the honors mattered. To others, they meant nothing. Either way, I could never stomach these pieces being sold to the general public. The amount of blood spilled by the men who earned these honors, both their own and the blood of others, could never be reflected by a price tag. That being said, the prices attached to these specimens were nothing short of insulting. For as little as four dollars, any snot nosed kid could walk in here and take one of these honors home and do anything he wanted with it, just because he thought it looked cool, with no freaking idea what it symbolized. I gave a serious dressing down to a skate punk one time. He'd sewn his grandfather's WWII 63rd Infantry badge to a Vietnam army jacket he bought off E-bay. The brown stripe of stain across the front looked like arterial spray, and was supposed to be real Vietnamese blood. You better believe I made him take it off. I don't care how many hours he'd logged on Call of Duty. It was insulting. Later that night, I looked up these items on E-bay. I couldn't believe this ensemble could be re-created for fifteen dollars. It made me sick.

Sorry, I'm off on a rant. Back to my story.

"See anything you'd like to take a closer look at?" the salesman asked.

"No. Thanks."

"Maybe I can help direct you towards something that would interest you more."

It's always wise to be aware of your surroundings. I'd scoped the place out pretty well, but now, I was about to show my hand. I wanted to be prepared in case the goons in the corners were signaled. I checked out the room behind me by glancing at an antique mirror behind the salesman. Four goons at their posts, two walking the floor together on the other side of the establishment. Check. Then, my eye instantly caught on a girl. My first thought was girl, because her appearance was so youthful, but this slender woman had to be 5'10" and somewhere around 30. Maybe it was the way she was dressed, or her worry free expression of innocence. Both struck me as out of place considering she was alone in a Vegas pawnshop full of suspicious-looking men. I focused on the girl for a split second. She had long dark hair, perhaps a Hispanic or Indian and Caucasian mixed-race complexion, and coal eyes that seemed almost impossibly large and very difficult to say no to. Think Winona Rider. Small mouth, strong features. She was ultra-demure in a baby doll dress with Mary Jane's, wearing a charm bracelet on her left wrist, which she was using as a distraction. She was the picture of sweetness and grace as she picked the pocket of the man at the other register on her way out.

Damn. I had business to finish, or I'd be all over that.

"Actually, I just came in to ask for directions." I told the salesman.

"Oh? Where do you want to go?"

"I heard there was going to be a military re-enactment tonight."

"Really? In Las Vegas?" he laughed.

"Well, I guess I could have heard wrong," I replied, smiling sheepishly. Then, meeting his eyes with a meaningful gaze, I added, "but, I don't think so."

"Where did you hear about this event?" he asked, his smile wary now.

"It was posted on a bulletin board."

"And you're sure it was for tonight?"

"Pretty sure."

"Is your family going to be attending as well?" he asked, eyebrows raised expectantly. This was code for, "_Who sent you?"_

"Nope. Just me." This was code for, "_I'm an independent buyer._"

"I see. Well, I guess I could just check with the ticket master, then," he said, reaching for a pen and paper next to the register. "Can you please provide your name and a number where you can be reached?"

"Of course."

I gave my name as Jacques-Louis David, the artist who painted the most commonly recognized portraits of Napoleon. This earned me a smirking grin and slight head nod from the salesman. Yep. I'd come to the right place. I gave the number for a burner phone. Then I flicked open the ink pad sitting beside the register, pressed my thumb to it and rolled a print onto the paper for him.

"I'll be waiting for your call," I said as I grabbed a Kleenex to wipe away the excess ink from my thumb.

"Give us an hour," he said, slipping the paper discretely into his pocket before moving on to the next customer.

I shoved the Kleenex into my pocket and walked casually out the door to the parking lot. I looked around hoping for some of that Sin City luck, but the girl was long gone.

I was riding a rented Harley. It provided a paper trail for my background check, wasn't too ostentatious, and would be handy if I needed to make a high-speed getaway. I climbed on, started it up, and headed for the Chandelier Lounge. This place was perfect for a little privacy. The atmosphere was decent. And the decor was lady friendly, with a couple million crystals draped on strings from floor to ceiling. I chose a seat that would make it easy for me to see anyone entering my space. It wouldn't be easy for those big goons to sneak up on me. And thanks to the crystal drapery behind me, I could disappear in an instant, hidden behind a curtain of light. I already knew three different ways to get out the back. I ordered a gin and tonic and a leggy blond. The waitress gave me a wink and a smile, walked my order over to the bar, and moments later, I got exactly what I ordered.

So, I was waiting around for my phone call. Once I'd finished my drink and wrapped up the friendly conversation, I went to the men's room. My gray-blue contacts were getting itchy, so I treated myself to a few eye drops. I washed the ink off my thumb and double-checked that all ten of my roll-on latex fingerprints were still secure. These weren't temps. I would be wearing them till I got back to Jersey, and I didn't have any backups, so I needed to take care of them. I suspected someone was dusting my room and my bike right now. That's what I'd do. Anyone could fake a single print. I'd taken pains to leave prints everywhere. On the bike chrome. On the mirror in my bathroom. On the towel bar. On the glass at the pawn shop and on my drinking glass in the bar.

My alias was David Gonzalez. When they ran my prints, they would see that I had done time for some high-tech B&E on several Beverly Hills mansions, and I had done more time than my partner in crime, because he rolled over on our fence when I didn't. There were no active warrants. My parole term was completed last year. I was a free man who seemed to be making all the right moves. And I was very motivated not to get caught again, which would mean I was indeed working alone. It would seem likely I had contacts and money equal to the task at hand. Where did I get this alias? David Gonzalez was a real guy who actually did those things. But there were only a handful of people who knew that my blue-eyed look-alike, Gonzalez, was resting peacefully in the landfill outside Atlantic City. No, I didn't kill him. He was a friend. Got rolled over by a pimp, who is now resting peacefully next to him. Why didn't I call the cops or have him properly laid to rest? Well, he wasn't that good a friend. Providing me with a reliable alias is the only solid David ever did for me. How does this work? Social Security hasn't been notified, and someone's still using his credit cards to make the minimum payment. You know. His Visa pays his MasterCard and his MasterCard pays his VISA. Once in a while he buys a lady a drink in Manhattan. Last year he bought and sold a new car. You know, it takes a lot of work to keep up a good alias.

I drove back to the pawn shop to pick up my invitation. I was handed a business card printed on flash paper. Typical Vegas.

In case you're unfamiliar, flash paper is used by magicians. When the paper touches a flame, it is immediately converted into various gases that are both invisible and odorless. The only odor you may detect would come from the ignition source, like a match. The paper appears to vanish almost instantly. Criminals like to use it for sensitive materials that may need to be destroyed if there's a raid. For example, if I were casing a place and had building blueprints, timing strategies, routes of entry and egress, and contact names and numbers lying around, and the Feds bust in, I just strike a match, and _voila_, they have no prosecutable evidence.

I left with my invitation. The only thing printed on the card was an address for a storage place, back entrance. No vehicle. Everyone would have to walk down the alley, making a smash and grab very difficult. There were several gunmen on the roof, and they looked to be top shelf. Smart. And I could see that things might go very bad in the case of a raid. Our hosts had to have a back door somewhere, or would that be a front door since we came in the back in this case? Regardless, I didn't have time to go snooping around for blue-prints and whatnot. Didn't need them. I wasn't interested in buying the stupid medal. I just wanted to ID the buyer and seller. Straight recon.

At midnight, I parked the bike on a busy street, walked three blocks, disappeared down the alley, and knocked on the steel door. Just like in the movies, a strip of metal slid aside and a man's eyes glared out at me. I showed my card, lit a match, the card disappeared, and the door opened. I descended the steep concrete stairs to another door. Wanded, frisked. The usual. I dropped the five grand cover charge and my burner phone in the baggie offered. It had my name on it. Jacques-Louis David. The goon opened the door, and I stepped into the underworld. It was dark, thick with cigar smoke, and everything you would expect from a low budget gangster movie. But, it looked real enough.

A truly private auction takes place online these days. Strangers transfer money from their Cayman accounts, couriers arrange transfer of goods, and buyer and seller never need to meet. This is more of a meet and greet set up. Or, you could think of it as a fence reunion party. There was some chance someone would make me, but it was dark, they'd been drinking, and I was quick enough to create doubt and duck out if I felt threatened. If this party were taking place in California, we would all be pool side at a mansion up on the cliffs, with lights twinkling from the trees. But, when in Rome.

I quietly took my place in one of the theater seats that had been set up in five long rows, glad to find they provided ample leg room. Scantily dressed hostesses were dispensing bourbon and fine cigars. A lady dressed in a vintage flapper outfit, complete with jewels and feathers on her hat approached, lifted the right arm of my theater chair, and sat down, snuggling right up to me. I put an arm around her, borrowed a black fedora from a guy sitting in the next row, snagged a bourbon from a passing tray, and blended right in. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. This dame's nothing but trouble. But no, I wasn't worried about my wallet.

First, here's a free tip. Lining your wallet with aluminum foil provides better protection against RFID scanners than most specially designed wallets on the market, and it costs almost nothing. Ok, un-stitching and re-stitching a wallet is a pain in the ass. But Ella, Rangeman's scout mother, is happy to do it for us.

Second tip, keep it small. Always use the 1-2-2 rule: 1 form of ID, 2 credit cards, 2 insurance cards - auto and health, and minimal bills. No coins. Tell those hard working waitresses to keep the change. And forget about loyalty punch cards. No one should be seeing you that often. Routine will get you killed.

Third, the wallet in my jacket pocket was a decoy. When you're being patted down, they start at your shoulders and chest, then focus on your waist, groin, and legs, but almost never pat down your forearms. My very thin, real wallet was in a hidden pocket just inside my right sleeve, so that when it appeared I reached my hand inside my coat to my left breast pocket, I could retrieve it. Same to put it back. If I took my coat off, I slipped it into a similar hidden pocket in my right pants pocket, at the top of the pocket, to the right, against my stomach rather than at the bottom of my pocket. Not an easy lift.

Now, here was an opportunity to have some real fun. The decoy wallet contained a couple small bills and a very bad fake ID that would be absolutely useless because the plastic was peeling, which would prompt inspection, at which time someone might notice the state name was spelled wrong and the card was expired. The credit cards, however, would work, but were cloned from actual cards owned by Detective Joe Morelli. Joe didn't line his wallet with foil. Someday I'd get a real kick out of watching him chase down and vigorously prosecute the man or woman who dared to steal from me. Now that's the way to put your hard earned tax dollars to work.

The first items being auctioned were a set of civil war muskets and ball molds owned by Chester Firefield, whose Confederate exploits were apparently detailed in some obscure diary that was recently on display at the Library of Congress. Next, a bronze Roman standard, age unknown, pitted and slightly bent. It looked like it may have survived the burning of Rome itself. I was whispering to my date and missed the finer details on that one. Next, a six foot tall by four foot square, Roman General's son's tombstone. The deep carvings on each side depicted a hero on horseback with his dogs, vanquishing his foes with spear and sword. The bottom half was covered with lots of stylish writing, and the whole thing was done up as if for royalty. A matronly woman won that prize. Where's she going to put it? In the study or in her garden? Why isn't it still marking this guy's grave? With all the writing on it, surely someone knows where it belongs. Is nothing sacred? A Chinese vase that belonged to some Emperor I didn't recall. A whimsical Oriental rug that once belonged to Dr. Seuss. That one sold well below retail value. Wrong crowd. A gold dinner charger supposedly used to serve Hitler at the Berghof.

Finally, the Napoleon medal was announced. The camera zoomed in and the enlarged image was clearly visible on the two flat screens at each side of the podium. It certainly looked the part, but who knew whether Napoleon actually owned this piece. It's not like they could swab for DNA.

Bidding began. I bid a couple times which helped me to effect the body language of each bidder, and those reacting to the bids. It was easy to pick out the seller. He was the only one not bidding who looked like he had something riding on the outcome, and he was the only one not drinking. Yep. He was a professional. No prints on the glass, but he did grip the armrest as he turned his body to look over the crowd. I didn't recognize him, but I got a good look at him. No way to take his picture. I didn't risk button cams or fancy pens unless the job was worth it, and this one wasn't. I could sketch him later. If I were lucky, I'd get his prints. No chance of a hair sample. He didn't have any. This guy looked like a runner, or a gymnast, or both. Brown eyes tonight, but who knows. Broken nose that had healed well and a slight scar on the left side of his upper lip. He got hit by a righty. And he was short. About 5"5' with a botched tan. He'd been wearing sunglasses part of the time, and the top of his head wasn't evenly burned. Looked like a dirty blonde unless his eyebrows were sun bleached, but with the clean shave, it was hard to tell. Good look for a thief. Hard to get a good description on a guy like this if he's on the run.

The medal sold for $130,000. The winner was a computer geek if I ever saw one. That got my attention. He was early twenties. Suspenders. Bow tie. Vertical striped shirt with muted 1970's color scheme, chic retro, I guess, but this shirt didn't call for a bow tie or suspenders. Curly brown hair, oversized glasses, chubby cheeks, and a smug smile. This was the smart-mouthed, brainiac retard that everyone hated in high school. How can someone this intellectually intelligent be so socially stupid? You just knew this guy had a membership to the Star Trek Experience and he probably spoke fluent Klingon. And he probably knew Eddie Abruzzi personally.

Did geek boy know he was indirectly responsible for Steven Soder's murder? No. Did he know he'd put a little girl's life in danger? No. Did he know I was thinking about what I might do to him? Clueless.

Once the final items had been auctioned off, I stood and mingled. This was the real reason people came. Business cards were being exchanged, flash drives were changing hands, and meetings were being scheduled.

The seller was gone, of course. I pulled a special paper coaster out of my pocket and set my glass down on the arm of his chair, hoping to pick up at least a partial print while I pretended to adjust the feathers I'd dislodged earlier on my girlfriend's hat. I slipped the coaster back into my pocket.

Then I approached geek boy. I introduced myself as David and congratulated him on his purchase. He was already wearing the medal, so I took a good look at it up close and asked him what he did for a living. Professional computer gamer, he said. I believed him, but I suspected he supplemented his income with other nefarious schemes. When he turned to talk to someone else, I picked a hair off his jacket and stuck it in my pocket with the coaster. My girlfriend had run off with my decoy wallet while I was seemingly distracted.

A waitress came by and geek boy placed his glass on the tray. I followed it around the room until I was able to borrow it for my cigar ash. I used another paper coaster to lift several prints before dropping the glass on another tray, but I didn't know if we'd get anything. Baby-face didn't look like he'd done any kind of time. But maybe he was in the system for a security clearance.

I was just about to leave when an error message registered in my mind. Small mouth, strong features, mixed-race, 5'10", big brown eyes. For a half-second, my hormones were singing. Then my boys crawled home and my hormones were deeply ashamed of themselves, because I was looking at a man in a suit with three days' stubble on his chin and short dark hair. If it was a wig, it was a good one. I had to force myself not to stare. I glanced around for a shiny surface I could use to get another look. But no luck.

_Screw it_, I decided. I walked straight over and offered my hand.

"Hi. I'm David."

"Excuse me," he said, not interested in making new friends. He side-stepped me and continued walking towards the men's room.

Okay, I could just brush that off as an urgent call, but I knew by the walk that this was the same girl I saw earlier at the pawn shop. The stride was just a little too controlled. She was thinking about walking like a man instead of just doing it because she could feel my eyes on her ass. That made me smile.

I wasn't the only man on her ass, either. I got the stink eye from a heavy set Italian who was also on his way to the john. Looked like they were headed to a meeting.

I followed, and wasn't disappointed to find that they were alone, talking in hushed tones until I walked in.

"Sorry to interrupt," I said, stepping up to one of the urinals and whipping it out.

The guy was annoyed and had his back to me. But the girl couldn't seem to pick an expression, or an action. She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling and put her hands in her pants pockets. Then she took a long, hard look at my member since I was offering her a look. Then she crossed her arms and glared daggers at me when I winked at her.

"I saw you earlier today," I told her. "Glad you decided to join us."

"Wait. You two know each other?" the old guy said, waggling his index finger back and forth between the two of us, and then swirling it around like he was stirring a drink. "This some kind of set up?"

"No." She said, irritated.

"We're done," he said, turning and yanking the door open.

"Shit," she said, fists clenched, teeth clenched, eyes shut tight. "_Shit_!"

I gave it a shake and zipped my fly. "Sorry, Love." I brushed past her and started washing my hands at the sink. Women appreciate it if a man washes his hands after taking a leak, even if they don't act like it.

"What the hell was that?" she asked in a husky voice, still trying to play the part. Honestly, it wasn't bad. She had a naturally deep timbre. I noticed she had a New York accent, mixed with something else.

"You know, If I hadn't seen you before, I might be fooled. Maybe glasses would help," I suggested.

"Help what?"

"Yeah, right. You know what," I said, giving her a sly smile and checking out her boobs while I dried my hands, even though the goods were taped down at the moment.

"You got it wrong," she said, turning to go.

I reached out and grabbed her arm. She was actually pretty strong. I found out just how strong because she lost her temper and threw every Taekwondo move she knew at me within a minute and a half. I let her slap me in the face once, just because I like it, but I blocked everything else. Then the goon from the door came in and tossed us both out.

We were walking down the alley together, but about twelve feet apart. I didn't provoke her, because I didn't want to get shot. When we got to the end of the alleyway, she followed me at a distance. After three blocks, I hopped on the Harley, and started following her. She didn't like that at all.

"What were you after?" I asked, letting the bike roll at an idle along side her. "Maybe I can help. You know, make things right for you."

"You want to make it right? You owe me five grand," she said, pressing her lips in anger to keep from adding expletives to that sentence.

"Did you even know that guy?"

She glared. Nope. First meeting.

"You buying or selling?" I kept on.

Finally, she stopped, arms crossed, glaring at me. We both knew I intended to follow her whether she was on foot, in a car, or in a cab. And apparently she didn't want to involve the cops.

"You know they did a background check on me before I could even get in," I reminded her. "And I know how you got in."

The guy she boosted the card from couldn't show because he didn't memorize the address, and he didn't dare tell management he'd lost his card. That was a big no-no.

"Buying," she said.

"Antiques?" I asked doubtfully.

"No."

"Diamonds?" I joked.

"No." She wasn't laughing.

"Tell me it's not guns or drugs," I begged.

"No."

"Then what?"

"After-market automotive accessories," she blurted out, exasperated with my questions.

"The kind used for smuggling?" I asked.

"No."

"Well, clue me in, then."

She stopped and stood with arms crossed, giving me attitude and striking a distinctly female pose that may as well have been hands-on-hips.

"You gonna get on, or what?" I asked, hitting the brake. We were starting to attract a little bit of attention.

She cautiously walked toward me.

"Who are you?"

"Lester Santos." I produced a business card seemingly out of thin air and offered it to her. "I work for a security company. That's security as in protection, not securities as in Wall Street."

As she took the card and examined it, her eyebrows shot up. "Know anything about bullet-proofing a car?"

New York accent mixed with Portuguese. Brazilian, I wondered? How interesting.

"Bullet-proofing, no. Bullet resistant? Hell yeah."

"What did you want that medal for?"

"That's a long story," I said, patting the seat behind me.

"Some other time," she said, making my card magically disappear with a flick of her wrist before crossing the street behind me.

I watched her slide behind the wheel of a rented Ford Focus. I got the plate, and followed for a few miles at a discrete distance, until she pulled down a long dark stretch of road. She hit the gas and pulled away. My instincts told me she was going to pull a U-turn and try to knock me off the bike if I followed. I eased to a stop and let her go. I know how to pick my fights. And I was thinking next time our paths crossed, we'd be a lot closer to home.


End file.
